


What [Not] to Expect When You're Expecting

by astrugglingstoic



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Brief Reference to Past Domestic Violence, It's Just a Thing Some Men Can Do, Low-key Mpreg, M/M, Multiformat: Text Messages, Post-Serum Artist Steve Rogers, Pregnant Mechanic Bucky Barnes, Steve Is Not the Baby Daddy, The Magical Journey of Dating in Your Second Trimester, Thor's Mercurial Accent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28708092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrugglingstoic/pseuds/astrugglingstoic
Summary: A typical rom-com in which boy meets boy, the other boy is already pregnant, no one gets married, love is immediately requited, and there are no airport chases. You know, that old gem.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 23
Kudos: 75





	What [Not] to Expect When You're Expecting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know much about NYC...or hospital protocols...or being pregnant, so bear with me, people. 🤞

It’s not an atypical night for Steve: stippled with periwinkle acrylic, pounding the pavement at midnight while he clears his stuffy head with big, cold inhales, his dry eyes rolling behind their lids as they try to right themselves into facing a single direction again. 

He’s five hours into his newest piece, which means that for the last four and a half he’s been loathing every single brushstroke and reconsidering his calling in life. The painting’s only saving grace is its palette, painstakingly tweaked and blended into a distinct array of pastels. But he’s clinging to that small victory, rewarding himself with an excursion to an all-night grocery store in search of ice cream and bananas and cereal. He wholeheartedly intends to dump everything into one giant bowl, gorge himself, and not resurface until he scrapes plastic. 

His next-door neighbor, Sam, gave him blanket permission long ago to borrow his car whenever he needs to haul more than his bike can handle. At first, Sam kicked up a fuss when Steve did him favors in return, like fill up his tank or pick him up odds and ends from the store. But then Sam learned the degree of bullheadedness he was dealing with and relented. 

Now they have a system, seeing as Sam works mostly nine-to-five hours at the VA center while Steve sets his own schedule as a freelancer. With the spare key to Sam’s apartment, he creeps in through the front door and replaces the grocery list pinned to the fridge with a note telling Sam when and where he took the car. 

Steve navigates the store’s aisles with ease, accumulating the basic staples for himself and Sam. He’s had plenty of nights like this one, resurfacing from a project only to realize he has nothing to eat in his apartment except for condiments and stale saltines. He can lose hours at a time if he gets on a roll with his work, and meals are always the first thing to fall by the wayside. Currently, his stomach is rumbling mutinous threats as he steers his cart down the bread aisle. 

The city is strange enough during standard operating hours let alone after midnight, so it’s not a great shock to see someone lounging on the floor against the bagels. After a few decades of inurement, the constant, nonchalant weirdness is comforting, and he would’ve been happy to let the guy loiter in peace if it weren’t for his pinched expression and odd posture. 

At first glance, he writes off the gradual but definitely convex stomach as a beer belly. The paunch looks pretty cute on the guy, but then Steve’s eyes drift upwards to the stranger’s face and, _God,_ is he lovely all over. Once his inner caveman is satisfied, the alarm bells start ringing in his head. The curve of the guy’s abdomen is perfectly round and firm under its taut, white tee, and the way he’s supporting it is strangely specific—one hand underneath, the other pressed to the side.

Steve abandons the cart midstride, and momentum sends it trundling into a glancing collision with a shelf of crackers, its squeaky hind wheel shrieking like a helpless passenger all the while. As if on autopilot, he gingerly approaches the guy and crouches a few feet away. “Hey, pal? Are you alright?”

“I don’t know.” The guy looks at him like he’s never seen another person before, his face strained and wan, almost ghostly in the overhead fluorescent lights, sweat slicking his hairline. It’s the eyes that really pierce Steve—wide, scared, and distinctly blue: the blue of a crusted-over river at wintertime. “I was reaching for something on the bottom shelf, musta bent too fast. I thought it was just a cramp, but it feels different. It-it hurts.” 

Steve feels bludgeoned by those two words from this stranger. He doesn’t understand the pang in his chest or the rock in his belly, but he is frighteningly certain he will do whatever he can to make sure he never hears them from that mouth again.

“Is there someone I can call for you? A spouse or partner?”

“Nah,” the guy winces, “it’s just me.”

Steve nods, resolute. “Alright, I’m gonna take you to the hospital. Do you think you can walk?” With nothing but blank incomprehension in return, he prods a little further. “Do you need me to carry you?”

The guy glances— _lost_ —at Steve’s arms and sees they are perfectly capable of carrying out that offer. “No, I can get by.” He still doesn’t move.

Steve sits on the floor, putting them at an equal level, of height and dignity. The guy is obviously going through some minor shock or fear paralysis; pressuring him won’t get them anywhere good. “You don’t know me. I can wait with you for an ambulance instead, but either way, I can’t leave you by yourself until you get some help.” 

After a few heavy breaths, the guy nods jerkily and relents. “Yeah, a ride would be great. Thanks.”

Steve is much more relieved than he has any right to be. He takes the guy’s hands in a firm, careful grip and pulls him up, catching scents of soap from his skin and detergent from his denim jacket and feeling like an all-around sleazy, terrible human being. He guides the guy by the elbow, the waist feeling too presumptuous, and keeps a close eye on him in case he needs more support, but he’s moving alright albeit uncomfortably.

Passing Steve’s deserted cart, the guy looks back over their shoulders. “Your ice cream’s gonna melt,” he mumbles, genuinely forlorn about it. Steve might feel a little guilty about the employee who will have to restock his veritable dragon’s hoard of groceries when his cart is recovered, but he’s not regretful. There’s no way to tell this stranger that he’s doing exactly what he wants to be doing right now. 

Instead, he says, “I’m not worried about it.”

Once the guy determines he’s not being sarcastic, he volunteers a shy smile.

Steve escorts him past a few concerned and/or suspicious cashiers to the passenger side of Sam’s car and waits for the guy to settle into his seat and click his belt. Traffic isn’t too abominable and the nearest hospital isn’t far, but the drive is still nerve-wracking. He’s transporting especially precious cargo, and that awareness looms over him with every intersection and stoplight.

“How far along are you?” Steve asks, aiming for a distraction. He notices the guy’s anxiety climb the closer they get to the hospital, shifting and fidgeting in his seat, his hands and lips bloodless. It’s not just for the guy’s benefit either. His ma might’ve been a nurse, but that doesn’t mean Steve’s at all prepared to witness or handle something awful happening to this guy’s baby.

“About four months.” The following pause is chock-full of unspoken things, so Steve keeps quiet and waits for the rest to come. “I’d been doing everything right, I thought. Been real careful since I found out.” Steve spares a glance at the guy as they slow to a stop at a red light and sees his eyes closed and a faint grimace on his mouth.

Steve parks against the sidewalk in the ER entrance circle and tows the guy to the nurses’ station. A woman in light-pink scrubs and clipped-back, loose curls is managing the reception desk. Her greeting smile is polite and sincere but not overly kind. It’s no mean feat to summon real compassion at this hour, in this place. Steve remembers his ma’s tales of the revolving circus that was the ER.

“Can I help you?”

Steve looks to the guy. He’s just the chauffeur; he doesn’t have any right to speak for him. Although, considering he’s still referring to him as “the guy,” he doesn’t know what pertinent information he would be able to supply anyway.

“I’m fourteen weeks pregnant, and I’m having these sharp pains in my stomach.” The Guy shakes his head, silently chastising himself. “Not my stomach— _lower_ …y’know.”

The ID badge clipped to the neckline of her scrubs reads _Sharon Carter_. “Any fever, vomiting, painful urination, bleeding, or unusual discharge?” 

Steve turns scarlet from the ears down, but The Guy answers instantly, if weakly, “No.” 

“How long have you been having these pains?”

“I dunno. Not long.” The Guy turns to him with a pleading expression, the nervous hands in his hair creating accidental cowlicks left, right, and center. In that moment, Steve would rather gnaw off his own fingers than not come through for him. “Right before you found me. Do you know when…?”

Steve checks his watch. “Not even fifteen minutes.”

“Okay.” Nurse Carter takes their answers in stride, and when she determines The Guy doesn’t need immediate, life-saving medical care for himself or his fetus, produces a clipboard and pen. “I need you to fill out these forms. I know paperwork is the last thing on your mind right now, but it really will speed up the process in the long run,” she states patiently, like The Guy isn’t just the next in a series, like she has all the time in the world for him. 

The Guy nods and exhales, rubbing the sleeve of his jacket over his face. He knows that it’s true and she’s right, but he still doesn’t like it. “Thanks.”

Steve, in a mad scramble to be helpful, takes the clipboard and ushers The Guy to an empty row of seats. It’s a weeknight, which must whittle down intake a bit, but the waiting room is still about one-third full, and the air is resonant with never-ending ring tones and chatter and bustle. “I could take care of these for you, if you tell me what to write” he suggests, because The Guy looks ready to vibrate out of his skin or burst into tears or maybe both.

“Please.”

Steve makes a headstart on his own, filling in the information he does know. So…the date. Yep, that’s it. 

The Guy’s eyes drop to his halting pen and the first blank line. “James Barnes.”

Behind his eyes, the name stamps itself bold and clear onto a blank scrap of his mind. He folds it into neat thirty-seconds and stashes it in a mental pocket, to be opened and smoothed out and examined later. “Like on a farm? Or with an ‘e’?”

_James’_ mouth curls into a smile that scrunches up his eyes and bares his top set of teeth. “With an ‘e.’”

Steve does his level best to not gawk or swallow his tongue and then further distress the pretty pregnant man. Via dictation, he learns that James is a year older than him, barely but technically shares his neighborhood, and is allergy-free.

Soon after Steve returns the paperwork to Nurse Carter, a triage nurse arrives with a wheelchair to collect James. “Is Dad coming with us?” she asks James over his shoulder, gripping the chair’s handlebars.

Steve shoots up in his seat and goes hot all over, sending a bewildered look in James’ direction.

“No,” James blurts, presumably about to refute any significant connection whatsoever between himself and Steve. It’s slightly anticlimactic and completely unthinkable when he just says, “No, I’ll go alone.” 

Now, Steve’s not going to give much weight to the behavior of someone clearly under a considerable amount of stress, but that doesn’t stop him from gazing after James’ long-gone trail with a slack-jawed expression. He thinks he might be flummoxed.

After a full minute of total stupefaction, he snaps back to reality, sprinting to the exit and managing to move Sam’s car to the visitors’ garage before it incurs a ticket. He thanks whatever good karma he’s accumulated and bows to the universe but assumes the last of his luck has run out when Nurse Carter beckons him over to her station with a crooked finger and a disapproving expression. And Steve, the son of a working-class single mother, knows better than to refuse her.

Without any pretense, she asks, “Are you squeamish or something?”

“Excuse me, ma’am?” An icy-hot prickle runs down his spine, leftover conditioning from his formative years of being scolded. 

“Do you faint at the sight of needles? Blood?” Her eyes remain on his while her fingers stab instinctively at her keyboard.

“No, ma’am. Why?” 

“I’m just trying to figure out why you’re here rather than with your pregnant partner.” Her eyes narrow fractionally, critically, like she really is trying to discern just what type and degree of asshole he is.

Steve is fairly certain nurses aren’t supposed to guilt-trip or intimidate the significant others, but the fact that she doesn’t seem to care about this in light of his perceived wrongdoing only makes Steve respect her more. He appreciates that she would look out for James if she thought no one else was. 

“I’m not his partner,” he explains. “We don’t even know each other. I just found him and brought him here. Right time, right place kinda situation.”

The severe, judgmental lines of Nurse Carter’s jaw and shoulders relax somewhat. Steve suspects it’s the most gracious acquittal he’s likely to get. “Hmph. Every nurse that’s passed this station in the last half-hour has been cooing over the pair of you. We all had bets on childhood sweethearts.”

A renewed wave of blushing washes over him, and he begins looking for an escape route from this conversation, but Nurse Carter isn’t through with him yet.

“So, Prince Charming, you’re spending your Thursday night—correction, Friday morning—in the ER for some stranger who means absolutely nothing to you.” Her deadpan tone communicates just how much she does not buy that.

“I couldn’t just drop him off like a package at the post office and go home,” he replies. “Besides, he’s alone. I can’t leave him.” He knows he would’ve done the same for anyone else in James’ situation; whether his investment would extend past regular civic duty or general humanitarianism like it seems to be doing now is doubtful, however. Steve is deliberately trying not to acknowledge the reason behind that.

“Well, you’ve got an hour’s wait ahead of you at least.” Nurse Carter casts a look to either side, taps her keyboard a few times, and finding them alone, leans in conspiratorially. “I happen to know that Mr. Barnes has been assigned to Dr. Palmer. I’m not spouting a party line when I say she’s one of the best doctors at this hospital. Your guy’s in good hands.”

Steve takes it as a peace offering. “Thank you, nurse.” 

She shrugs off his thanks not unkindly and insists, “Call me Sharon. Better grab a coffee and settle in.” 

“Steve,” he offers.

Sharon dismisses him with an amiable smile and directions to the closest vending machines.

First thing he does upon retaking his rightful seat in the waiting area is text Sam to inform him of the whereabouts of his Impala should he wake up during the night and find it still missing. He sets his cup of caffeine slurry between his feet and rummages in his pockets until he recovers Sam’s grocery list. With nothing else better to do, he doodles on its blank back and throws back the occasional shot of coffee.

Steve does in fact have at least an hour of waiting ahead of him; to be precise, he has two hours and thirty-six minutes of it. The effects of the coffee and adrenaline wear off after the first hour, but the unease keeps him alert. He’s been sketching the same pair of eyes on his scrap of paper, trying to capture their luster and expressiveness and mostly failing.

He’s absorbed in the left, lower lash line when someone scuffs to a stop before him and scares him out of his skin.

“Jesus, you’re still here.” James doesn’t sound disturbed so much as awed, like Steve has done something far more admirable than plant his ass in a chair for a few hours and draw obsessive pictures. Pictures that he not so subtly crumples into a ball and shoves back into the bowels of his pocket as he stands.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay. Both of you.” He points stupidly at the slight swell of James’ stomach and then prays for a lightning bolt to smite him from the surface of the earth. Until three hours ago, he would’ve sworn that he was a sensible, functioning adult.

“We’re fine.” James releases a relieved _whoosh_ of breath that makes his lips indecently pouty, and Steve recognizes that he has invalidated any good karma remaining to him and has now earned a direct course to Hell. He’s mixing afterlife probabilities, but the gist is he’s a _very bad man_.

“That’s great.” Steve’s guts uncoil from their own knot at the news. “That’s wonderful, really.”

A sheepish look crosses James’ face. “It was something called round ligament pain. Apparently, it’s really common in the second trimester, and all the activity and bending agitated it. You can treat it with Tylenol and a heating pad and some _very_ specific preventative stretches.” James’ cheeks tint pink, and he only worsens the state of them by scrubbing over his face. There’s a smidge of self-deprecation in his bleary smile. “Basically, I’m an idiot who made a big deal out of nothing.”

Steve crosses his arms very tightly across his chest so that he’s not tempted by utter lunacy to reach out for James. “Better to come in on a false alarm than stay put for something that could be serious. You did the right thing.”

“Yeah, that’s what the doc said, too,” James agrees eventually, chewing the inside of his cheek. “My OB gave me a few recommendations for pregnancy books—because there are _a lot_ out there, and it was a little overwhelming, y’know?—but I haven’t had a chance to pick them up yet. Mostly, I’d been calling my ma and sister about little stuff up ’til now, but I didn’t want to worry them with this until I knew what was what.” When James runs out of steam, he sets his hands on his hips and exhales a defeated little puff of air. “I got no idea what I’m doing, if you hadn’t already noticed. I fell apart back there, at the store. I _froze.”_

“C’mon,” Steve scoffs gently. “You woulda handled it if I hadn’t shown up. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Steve is certain from his peripheral vision that the cluster of nurses at reception has grown since his last glance. Sharon catches him peeking and wiggles her fingers in a chummy wave. It seems to him that James has been through enough for one night, so he spares him the knowledge that half the ER nursing staff has cast them into some sort of off-center meet-cute.

“Yeah, alright,” James concedes, if only to stop Steve from pouring more validations at his feet. “So how long were you gonna wait here exactly? It’s past three a.m.”

Steve still has a lone shred of dignity fluttering in the breeze that he very much wants to protect. He shrugs.

James barks a laugh. “Jesus,” he repeats, wiping the grin off his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve, his inimitable eyes bright. “I didn’t send anyone after you for a reason. I was trying to give you an out, in case you had your fill of melodrama for the night.” 

Steve smiles at his shoes. “I got that. Thought I’d take my chances anyway.”

“I never did thank you, not properly. You did me this enormous favor and—” Horror crosses James’ expression, chokes him. His eyes are round, white around blue, like Arctic ice. “I didn’t ask your name.”

“Oh,” Steve chuckles. “Hey, that’s okay. Your mind was on more important things.”

“I spent ten minutes with you in the car.”

“I’m Steve Rogers, by the way,” he adds helpfully.

With great lamentation, James covers his face with his hands and says, “Oh my God.” Abruptly, he pulls his wallet out of his jacket and starts flipping through the bills inside. “Here, let me at least cover your gas.”

“James, no.” He waves him off, a little stiff with embarrassment. “I’m not gonna do that. C’mon.” 

“Steve,” James sighs, his face clearly conveying _work with me, here_.

Anyone who’s spent more than ten consecutive minutes with Steve knows how unlikely that is to happen, and he would say such to James except that he doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together right now. Between the repeating audio loop of his name from James’ lips, there’s only static and white noise.

“Lunch.” Oh, dear _God_ , that was him. Obviously, dangerous impulses are rising and filling the void left behind by his cognitive processes. But he’s not ready for this to be the end of his acquaintance with James either, so he persists. “If you really feel like you need to repay me in some way, that is.”

Amidst the anticipation, Steve half-expects to see the nurses pressing stethoscopes to the floor for better reception. He can’t even blame them for taking interest in this disgraceful spectacle anymore. He’s a large, grown man glowing beet-red with his hands stuffed in his pockets like a kindergartner on the playground courting his first crush. He is impossible to miss.

“I can do that,” James says amenably.

Steve’s a minute away from needing a defibrillator anyway, so he goes for broke. “We could exchange numbers now, figure out the details later?” 

James cards a hand through his hair, that same grin on his face as before. Amusedly incredulous, politely humoring, or pleased, Steve can’t tell quite yet. “Sure.”

Steve shares his number with James and laughs at the incoming text awaiting him.

Steve saves the name and number in his phone and shoots James a text back even though he already has Steve’s contact information. 

He’s hoping it might make him just that little bit less unforgettable. In one night, he’s invented an entirely new scale of pathetic, he’s aware. What’s even more worrisome though is that he doesn’t really care about making an absolute fool of himself in front of James, so long as it works.

James stares at his screen and bites his lip calculatingly. “Y’know, the only people who call me James are my relatives. My friends call me Bucky.” 

“Bucky, huh?” Steve tastes the name on his tongue and around his teeth and finds that he likes the flavor and shape of it very much. “Kind of an unusual nickname.”

“Maybe I’ll tell you where it comes from sometime.”

* * *

Sam’s not only awake when he gets back but chomping his nutritious, wholegrain cereal from the comfort of his breakfast nook. Usually, Steve sneaks back in to leave the groceries and load the perishables into the fridge without Sam being any the wiser.

“Saw your message when I got up to go to the bathroom. No way was I was going back to sleep until you came home and explained yourself. This text you sent me, man…” Sam holds his phone up for Steve’s inspection, chuckling and shaking his head.

Sam is a true, irreplaceable friend and always ready to offer his help before being asked, but in no way does that preclude him from giving Steve a hard time about the ridiculous situations that seem to find Steve by way of what must be geomagnetic forces. 

Steve slumps onto the opposite stool. It has been a very long day. “I met a guy.”

“Mm-hmm,” Sam comments, crunching away.

“He’s incredible.” His voice sounds faraway to his own ears and faintly despairing.

“You’re a decent judge of character. I’m sure he is.” Sam is baiting him; he knows things are about to go sideways. 

“He’s single.”

“That’s a good start,” Sam answers, not looking up from his cereal. 

“I might have accidentally become infatuated with him in the span of three hours.”

A slight pause, full of budding suspicion. “Okay…”

Steve rests his forehead on the counter’s cool surface and resigns himself to his doom. “He’s four months pregnant.”

Alright, Sam laughing is understandable, but the outright _cackling_ and almost falling off his stool with uncontainable glee is unnecessary. “I can’t look at you right now,” Sam wheezes, wiping tears away from his eyes. 

Steve slinks off his seat with the car keys in hand and mumbles, “We need milk.”

He can still hear Sam howling from the hallway.


End file.
